


50 CANDLES

by thoughtsdemise



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Drunken Stupor, M/M, Mech/Mech, Sleazy Sensuality, sticky smut, tactile play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 09:33:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7710016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thoughtsdemise/pseuds/thoughtsdemise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Wax-n-oil-n-knead for good health.:  Turbine engine porn with a sticky stamp it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	50 CANDLES

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rothinsel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rothinsel/gifts).



_ “Come play with me; let me be the toy that fulfills your needs.” _ —50 Candles by Boys II Men

Ironhide licks the side of Ratchet’s neck as he eyes the flyer that sits across from him in a huff.  Thick fingers dig into an arching back.  Ironhide frees a hand from red plating to pat a free knee.  “Plenty of room over here, sugar.  Let me lick those trembling wings clean for ya.”

Pharma bites his lip as he watches that growing smile spread then swipe a line down Ratchet’s spine to where thick fingers play at the edge of an open valve cover.  Blue optics move to the satisfied smile.  Ratchet eyes the other medic while licking at his own shoulder.  His optics already hazed from too much Energex and a building charge.  The grounder medic shifts his hips up and back to push in Ironhide’s questing fingers in shameless self-indulgence.

‘Hide rumbles and grasps the back of Ratchet’s neck in warning earning a laugh and a shivering chest brushing against his.  “Not suppose start the party yet, Ratch.”  His optics widen as the mech in his arms shudders in a pleased overload.  Ironhide withdraws sticky fingers from Ratchet’s valve with a slight frown.  He knew the mech was wild, but he had hoped to get him wound up a little more so he could enjoy both medical students on his lap purring before they headed out for the night.  “Now that was naughty, Ratch.”

Red fingers wrap lightly around a burnish red arm tugging up.  A nimble glossa flicks over sticky fingers in a silent apology.  The other red hand taps a sensual slide against the hand that grips the nape of a trembling neck.  He smiles around the fingers in his mouth at the high vibrating rumble behind him.  A moment later Pharma stands over the two other mech.  He eyes Ironhide before glancing at his fellow student.  He tips his head in a slow smile. 

Keeping his eyes locked on Ratchet’s, Pharma’s hand track over the thick warrior plating too.  The medical college was next to a large military installation so having a vast knowledge of the warrior grounder frame types allows the flyer to easily locate a neural node in the elbow that makes the arm jump forward.  Ratchet chokes slightly at the sudden invasion of fingers into his intake tubing.  He reaches up pleadingly to pet a shoulder vent while a small wash of lubricant coats his jerking thighs.

Blue fingers withdraw from the elbow joint to glance over a thick rumbling chest.  The flyer kisses the side of Ratchet’s lips that are stretched wide around the fingers in his mouth before moving to mouth at knuckles and wrist.  Pharma fingers along Ironhide’s face in light sweeps.  He presses one more licking kiss on Ratchet’s lips before pulling away to stand.  Blue fingers tangle with silver as Ironhide’s fingers slip from between Ratchet’s lips with a slick pop.  The flyer kisses the warrior’s fingers before letting the large had drop.  Two fingers press into Ratchet’s crest then draw along his face to tilt his fuzzed optics up.

“Let’s go someplace more comfortable, Ratchet.  I’m sure your friend,” Pharma quirks an optical ridge at the warrior, “would like to bend you over a berth without any gawkers.  I know I certainly would.  To both of you,” the medical student adds smugly as his grip tightens on Ironhide’s chin before letting go to tap it.  “Ironhide, was it?  Throw Ratchet over your shoulder like a primitive and let’s go.”  Pharma slides a hand down warrior armor to finger a red spike cover. 

Ratchet whimpers from his position across thick shoulders.  He glances at Pharma who leans back against the wall of the transport rig they all ride in.  The medical student tries to arch and thrust his hips against Ironhide’s black shoulder spaulder.  The warrior’s hands tighten to prevent this movement.  A wry grin crawls over his face as he watches Ratchet’s frustration grow when the transport jerks and his shoulder rubs against the open valve.  Ironhide lifts Ratchet slightly to resettle him more comfortable against black shoulders.

Ironhide eyes the flyer from around Ratchet’s helm, enjoying the lean of that body.  He rolls his shoulder in a shrug amping Ratchet’s charge up even further without a release.  Mechs and femmes glance at the trio but shrug it off as the medical students being well the kinky partiers they were meant to be.  Some of them even let a tiny bit of jealousy traverse their field as they eye the big warrior who notices their looks with a cocky grin.  Ratchet digs into a black shoulder and calls the red-black mech several different things which make Ironhide chuckle, and Pharma raise an optic ridge at his fellow’s language.  He shakes his head and pulls on the cord to call for a stop of the transport.

Ratchet’s yelp as he finally overloads drowns out the screeching of the brakes, and he slumps across ‘Hide’s shoulders panting on the verge of a drunken stupor into recharge.

Ironhide shifts Ratchet’s weight off his shoulder to lay him down on a couch.  The party bot had finally passed out during their walk from the transport station.  Hide rubs the back of his neck before turning to the flyer who has made himself comfortable on the room’s only berth.  Pharma taps his foot impatiently as his looks over the big truck into front of him.  The warrior notices the look and winks with a lick.  Pharma puffs up in indignation at the covetous look Ironhide levels at him.  He stiffens his wings and points to the wash-rack door in a silent command to the big warrior who scoffs a laugh but decides to indulge the little pristine flyer.

===

Pharma grunts as thick thumbs need into the small of his back.  Silver fingers tease at his hips holding him in place.  Ironhide grins at the enticing picture the flyer makes sprawled out on his chest beneath the big warrior as he is slowly fucked into a moldable pile of metal.  Hide’s spike pulls all the way out to rim the valve, dunking in and out along the dribbles of lubricant.  Ironhide adjusts his grip on Pharma’s hips before slamming back home and setting a brutal pace.

He stalls the pace after a handful of thrusts and pulls out, trying to stimulate as many nodes and ridges as he can.  The grounder grunts and leaves dents in Pharma’s hips as the medic tries to buck up onto the retreating spike.  Blue hands pull desperately at silver, but Ironhide will not give up his hold.  He circles the cycling valve before sliding the shaft up and over a bucking blue aft.

While he fucks the slicked pelvic array between Pharma’s thighs and aft, Ironhide’s hands sweep in a soft scratching pet over blue thighs.  His touch slides over the edges of Pharma’s valve, clutching moving hips.  Hide pushes those jostling hips down against the berth’s surface with a static whine from the medical student’s vocalizer.  He kisses the spinning turbine engine.

“Patience, sugar.”  Ironhide leans over Pharma’s back to whisper in his audio.  “Wanna lick those wings and pet inside your engine first then ya’ll can explode around my jack.”

Hide’s glossa flicks over a shoulder vent and moves down to a trembling wing to alternatively lick and suck the frontal edge.  He leaves a sticky trail of oral lube across the flat plane before biting the wind flap join.  While Ironhide molests one wing with his glossa, thick fingers probe inside the delicate inner workings of the combustion chamber.  The chamber’s firing mechanism aborts due to lack of air intake.  Hide’s hand blocks the outtake port almost completely, and the flyer cannot draw enough usable air into his intake mechanism.

“Havin’ trouble firin’, sugar?”

Pharma mangles the edge of the berth.  He tries to shift back onto Ironhide’s spike, but the grounder has shifted to trap his knees.  He hears several expletives slip from his vocalizer before he descends into a pleading whine as Ironhide transfers the biting lick to his other wing.  The big hand is withdrawn from the turbine to brutally grasp a blue hip, and the other silver hand splays along Pharma’s chest tilting him up and away from the berth’s surface.  The flyer whines at the loss of contact along his back as Hide settles back on his ped to eye the dribbling valve.

Large fingers track down a thin chassis.  Ironhide angles Pharma’s hip to penetrate him in one shift deep thrust.  The grounder shuts off his optics enjoying the squeeze around his cable.  His focus is so completely on the swirling ridges and firing nodes that he doesn’t hear the warbled gasp and cry or the sound of a turbine engine fire fully up to expel the built up fuel within its lines.

Pharma buries his face in the berth as his own engine fires and pushes him forward.  The overload’s energy starting in his valve and crackling over his entire frame in striping arches.  Shadows slither along the ceiling and walls from the jet fire expelling from a combustion engine that whines and sputters as it runs out of fuel to fire properly.  The flyer sags against the surface of the berth, and a tugging relief on his spark spirals him down on the verge of darkness.  However, it is the impact of metal against metal and the swearing that draw his consciousness up enough for him to process that the jumping shadows from his engine’s fire had not completely extinguished, become faded yes but not extinguished.  He draws up on his hands and knees enough to look back between his own spread thighs.

Ironhide lays half spilled off the berth, his legs flinging themselves wildly about as the warrior’s frame reacts to something that seems to be hurting him.  With a tired rev to his engine, Pharma straightens and pulls himself up enough to peer over the edge of the berth.  He snorts on a chuckle to see Hide smacking his own chest to put out the fire on his plating.  After several failed attempts Pharma gives into a small nervous giggle fit as the big warrior finally manages to snuff the last of the flames on his chest.  The flyer stumbles off the berth as Hide sprawls with relief on the floor, trying to ignore the laughter and shake of his frame from the quickly evaporating charge.  He eyes Pharma’s retreating frame before shutting off his optics and tries to take several deep intakes to chase away the burning sting on his chest.

“Are you going to lie there all night or get yourself up?”  The static lacing the words cannot hide the humor in the soft voice.

The grounder onlines his optics to stare up at the flyer that wisely stands back a few steps.  In Pharma’s mitts a medical kit sits open.  The medical student gives Ironhide a wry smile before ducking his head to hide the embarrassment in his optics.  He offers up a blue hand that is ignored as the truck pulls himself up and along the berth’s surface before settling on his back with a tired sigh and painful shift.

“Now I know jets can go boom when stroked right but,” he eyes the flying medic mount the berth to settle next to him, “I didn’t expect the light show.”  He actually chuckles then winces at the ting from the fired metal on his chest.  He splays his arms to help relieve the burning sensation roaring through his systems.  He had suffered worse wounds in trying so he tries to gather himself in an attempt to purpose a round two to the little jet.

“Giving up already?”

A tight hand sweeping over his depressurized spike draws Ironhide’s full attention to the fact that the devious little flyer had settled himself over his frame, open valve already cycling directly above the cable’s tip that quivers in interest.  Pharma smiles sweetly at the surprise in Ironhide’s eye as he engulfs the spike in the heat of his valve with a sigh and shiver to his wings and plating.

“Didn’t beg you for a coward in the face of…ah mmm,” a grinding shift of hips to answer the upward thrust from the grounder.  Pharma bites his lips and gives in to a rocking rhythm for a moment.   “…adversity.”   The flyer chokes out before locking his knees to stall any further gain in momentum by Hide who grumbles but rocks into the gentle sway of blue hips.

Gaining back some control Pharma is able to unscrew the lid of the chair he holds in his hand.  He heaps out a generous amount of the desensitizing gel and lathers it along the burns across Ironhide’s chest.  In the far back of his emotion chips he feels slightly bad for burning the big warrior after all no one had ever—Pharma smiles down at the grounder as a new light dawns in his optics.  Blue fingers slip with proficiency through the gel in gentle deep strokes across the warrior’s rumbling chest. 

Their bodies unit and collide in a clanging dance of half aborted and full movements as they give in to the frame’s passion.  The charge building and blinding as it races higher and higher.

===

Ratchet groans as his systems power up sluggishly.  Errors pepper against his HUD even as he is pulled down into involuntary shutdown routine to restart his wake cycle.  Clicking internal systems cycle through the involuntary routine three more times before he is able to grip tightly onto consciousness to pull himself up into too bright lights and a swinging sensation from misfiring gyroscopes.  Ratchet’s tank lurk as he grips the back the couch his lays thrown over.  With a shaking frame he fumbles and slides to the floor so he can press his head against the metal mesh of the furniture.  He cycles his optics open only to slits as a strange slurping clang finally reaches his too sensitive buzzing audios.

Pharma’s back impacts the berth as he arches in another overload.  Ironhide moves swiftly above him for a couple more thrusts before following the flyer down into bliss.  The grounder pulls the lighter frame tightly against a deep rumbling chest before giving in to the gentle pecks along his chin.  Glossa slip over each other.  Engines buzz and push higher as frame slides over frame in rolling thrusts.  Thick fingers pet along the seams of a lightly firing turbine which sparks in a soft flare of fire.  Ironhide and Pharma’s lips collide and pull apart as they level a stare deep into each other’s optical sensors, neither participant willing to give in to the other after their tenth overload.

Ratchet’s optics cycle wider as he watches the enticing display.  A small bite of jealous wiggles its way through his EM field as he watches Ironhide kiss Pharma, something the warrior had yet to do for him.  He also keys into the fact that Pharma’s turbine is firing, slowly and lowly but still spitting out a small flame with the rocking motions of their frames.  He looks down at his hips and the lack of any pooling transfluid between his legs has his optical ridges shooting to the back of his helm.  He huffs at the pleased static warble that emits from one of the two frames on the berth.  Ratchet gathers his feet unsteadily beneath himself and makes his way to the shower to try to scrub his frame clean.

“Ra-ratchet,” the call from Pharma draws the grounder medical student up short in front of the bathroom door.  Ironhide is mouthing along Pharma’s neck cables and lost in his own vibrating overload.  “Make sure you clean up after yourself and shut the door when you leave, m’kay?  Thanks, sugar.”  Pharma blows a kiss with a wink at the gaping Ratchet before scratching fingers up Hide’s back.


End file.
